


Problem

by mardia



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, I know exactly who you are, Connor,” Wes says, his gaze cool. “You’re the type of person who’s never had anything really go wrong for them, not in their whole life before now. And now something <i>has</i> gone wrong, really wrong, and you don’t know how to handle it.”</p><p>Connor is silent, stunned silent, and Wes goes on. “Which is fine, really,” he tells Connor. “But that means that when you start falling apart, I have to step in. So this whole temper tantrum you’re throwing right now doesn’t really help me do that.” He tilts his head at Connor and asks, “Now, where’s your car parked?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondarysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondarysin/gifts).



In retrospect, sending a series of drunk texts to Laurel and Michaela probably wasn’t a great idea. So really, Connor shouldn’t have been all that shocked to look up from his drink to find Wes sitting at the bar next to him, his best disapproving glare aimed Connor’s way.

“Well, if it isn’t our little ringleader,” Connor says, smirking. And if he has to enunciate each word carefully to keep from slurring, who even cares. 

“It’s a Tuesday night and we have class tomorrow, Connor,” Wes says. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Having a drink,” Connor declares, then pulls a mock-thoughtful face. “Actually, to be honest with you, I am having many, many drinks tonight.”

Wes looks like it’s taking him a lot of effort not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, okay, that stops now.” He reaches for Connor’s scotch and Connor pulls it away, the drink spilling over his fingertips.

“Oh fuck you, Wes,” Connor says, shoving at his arm. His aim’s not too great, though, he catches mostly air and part of Wes’s sleeve as Wes ducks out of range. “If I want to get fucking wasted in a bar, I will.”

“No, you won’t,” Wes says, implacable. “You’re a sloppy drunk and you’re in public, the last thing any of us needs is you saying something stupid that anyone could overhear.”

Connor opens his eyes wide. “Why, what could I say? What could I _possibly_ say--” His voice starts to rise, goading, and it gets cut off when Wes actually _slaps his hand_ over Connor’s mouth, pressing down hard against Connor’s lips. 

“Don’t,” Wes says, leaning in, and despite everything, the booze in his system and the constant refrain running through Connor’s head to not think of that night, to never think of that night, he remembers how fucking calm Wes was, how he was the only one of them who could still think and reason and plan. How he was the only one who didn’t fall apart, who still hasn’t fallen apart.

When Wes pulls his mouth away, Connor doesn’t say a word.

“You’re going to put down that drink, you’re going to pay your tab, and you’re going to let me drive you home,” Wes says, each word delivered in that steady voice, like there’s not even a question that Connor is going to do what he’s saying.

And fuck him, fuck him, but isn’t he right? Haven’t they all done what Wes has told them to do, right from that very night? Why shouldn’t Wes assume that Connor’s going to follow that same pattern now?

That’s not the worst part--the worst part is that he’s _right_. Connor is going to do what Wes tells him to, because it’s such a _relief_ to have someone else making the decisions for him, someone else who can take the wheel and drive, someone else who can make sure that things are going to be okay. 

The bartender eyes them both warily the whole time Connor’s settling up his tab, but he doesn’t say anything, and Wes marches Connor out of there, his hand a solid weight on Connor’s back. 

Once they’re outside in the cold winter air, Wes turns to Connor. “Give me your keys.”

Connor glares at him, and slaps his car keys into Wes’s outstretched hand. “You’re a fucking asshole, Wes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Wes mutters, clearly not even paying attention to Connor now, and out of everything, that’s the part that pisses Connor off the most. 

“You’re a fucking sanctimonious _prick_ , you know that? I can handle myself, I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” Wes just looks at him, eyebrow raised, the disagreement even more apparent than if he’d said anything out loud, and furious, Connor spits out, “You don’t fucking know me, Wes.”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are, Connor,” Wes says, his gaze cool. “You’re the type of person who’s never had anything really go wrong for them, not in their whole life before now. And now something _has_ gone wrong, really wrong, and you don’t know how to handle it.”

Connor is silent, stunned silent, and Wes goes on. “Which is fine, really,” he tells Connor. “But that means that when you start falling apart, I have to step in. So this whole temper tantrum you’re throwing right now doesn’t really help me do that.” He tilts his head at Connor and asks, “Now, where’s your car parked?”

Still silent, Connor points, and Wes glances over. “Okay, good.”

Wes actually has the nerve to open the passenger door for Connor, and more than that, buckle his seatbelt for him, like he’s a _child_ , like he--

\--like somehow, it’s Wes’s job to make sure Connor gets through this okay. Like it matters to him that Connor is okay by the end of the night.

It’s a stupid, stupid fucking thing to think, they’re not even friends, they’re just people who got stuck together in this crazy, fucked-up situation, but Connor’s chest is still clenched tight at the idea of it. At having someone, anyone, watching his back like this. 

He’s staring at Wes now, and it takes Connor a second to process that Wes has finished buckling him in, and is looking right back at him. “What were you trying to do tonight, Connor?” Wes asks, and the lack of judgment in the question has Connor opening his mouth and answering, despite himself.

“I just wanted to get out of my head for a while,” Connor admits, and it sounds so small and stupid to his ears. “Just turn off my brain for a while, and stop...stop thinking.”

Wes doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t get a pitying look on his face, just asks him next, “Where’s Oliver? Are you two still a thing?”

Connor barely keeps from flinching. “Oliver...has decided to go out and find someone with less baggage than me.”

“I’m sorry,” Wes tells him, and Connor shakes his head. 

“Don’t tell me that. Just drive me home, okay?”

Wes pauses, but eventually shuts the door and walks around the car to get into the driver’s seat. Once he’s there, though, he puts the keys in the ignition but doesn’t turn them, just sits there and looks at Connor for a long second before saying, out of the blue, “I want to try something here. If you don’t want to, just say so.”

Connor stares at him. “What are you going to do?”

The answer, as it turns out, is pull a condom out of his wallet, and move to unbutton Connor’s jeans. “Jesus fucking--” Connor chokes, disbelieving. “You--what the _fuck_.”

Wes looks up, looks _up_ , from where his head is hovering over Connor’s crotch, and says, patiently, like this is a totally rational thing to do and not coming out of fucking left field, “You need a way to get out of your head. I can do that for you. Now, do you want to do this, or not?”

This is insane. Out of all the ill-advised hookups Connor’s had, this is by far the most insane. But despite all that, he’s not saying no. He doesn’t want to say no.

Connor’s head falls back against the headrest, and Wes nods and gets back to work, pulling Connor’s half-hard cock out of his trousers, rolling the condom on, and lowering his head. 

Connor hisses at the feel of Wes’ tongue on him, a realization dawning on him quickly. “Jesus Christ, you’ve done this before,” he accuses, his hand on Wes’s shoulder. Wes doesn’t react to this, just keeps going, his head bobbing up and down, mouth tight and hot around Connor’s cock, and it’s--it’s good, good enough that Connor has to fight to not jerk up into Wes’s mouth, good enough that he can close his eyes and think of nothing else, not Oliver, not murder, not the fucked-up disaster his life’s become, just a hot wet mouth swallowing around his cock.

And when Connor finally comes, his eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s not thinking of a single thing at all. 

Afterwards, he lies there, breathless, as Wes takes care of the cleanup--tossing the used condom out of the car, using the wipes stashed in the glove compartment to clean Connor up. He wipes at his mouth absentmindedly with his hand, and Connor says, “I’d offer you a mint or something but I’m all out.”

“It’s fine,” Wes says, sounding almost normal except for the slight raspiness to his voice. 

Connor looks at him and says again, “You’ve done that before.”

Wes doesn’t try to duck the question, just confirms, “Yes.” He sits back in his seat, pulling the seatbelt around him, and says, “The next time you need to get out of your head, don’t go to a bar. Just call me.”

“You’re insane,” Connor tells him, half-laughing from sheer disbelief. “You know you’re completely fucking insane, right?”

Wes doesn’t seem to take any offense at this, just shrugs a little. “No, I’m just...very, very practical.”

“Practical,” Connor repeats, sarcastically.

Wes finally starts the car. “When I need to be.”

There’s really not much you can say to that, so Connor just turns to stare out the window as they pull out of the parking lot, muttering to himself, “Fucking crazy.”

They don’t say much else on the drive back to Connor’s place. Wes, in his role of cocksucking chaperone, still insists on walking Connor up to his apartment, making sure Connor’s set up in the morning with a glass of water and an open bottle of aspirin. 

It’s all completely fucked up, and the most insane part of it all is that underneath everything, despite everything--there is a part of Connor that is grateful. “Why are you doing this?” he finally chokes out, as he climbs into bed, with Wes standing by the door to turn out the light. 

“Because we’re already in this together,” Wes tells him, still so calm and steady. “The five of us, we’re in this. We’ll always be in this together. There’s not much point in pretending otherwise.”

“Right,” Connor murmurs, and maybe it’s a combination of the late hour, the alcohol still in his system, or the delayed shock from everything that’s happened, but that actually makes more sense to him than anything else has tonight.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but Connor doesn’t dream that night, and when he wakes up in the morning, it’s to a much-needed glass of water, a thankfully open bottle of aspirin, and a text from Wes. _make sure to drink the water. and the offer from last night still stands. just in case you were wondering._

Connor, his head still pounding dully, stares at it for a long time before typing out a reply. 

_I know. I’ll keep it in mind._


End file.
